


Thou Failed

by resonatingkitty



Series: A Lunatic Fringe and Suplex City [3]
Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: M/M, One Shot, This is apparently going to be a thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-24
Updated: 2016-02-28
Packaged: 2018-05-22 22:08:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6095523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/resonatingkitty/pseuds/resonatingkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Fastlane, all Dean wants to do is cool off and forget that he'd lost his shot to headline Wrestlemania. That is until Brock Lesnar comes to him with a proposition that is too good to resist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Alright so this Ambrose/Lesnar thing is apparently a thing now. This idea had been in my head right after Fastlane and I was kindly waiting to see how WWE was going to be writing it before acting on the idea. Thankfully that pre-Raw Lesnar attack video appeared and I was able to act on the idea. 
> 
> This fic is going to have two parts to it. This part covers post Fastlane and the second part will cover Feb 22's RAW. 
> 
> Rating on the fic might change as there isn't really any sexual stuff in this part but that will most likely change come part two.

##### February 21, 2016 - Post Fastlane

**_Locker Room 10:50 PM_**

-

Every piece of movable furniture there was in the small space was now uprooted from its original resting spot and was now scattered across the room. In the middle of the carnage stood a heaving Dean Ambrose. The mess, a result of Dean's failed attempts to win and go on to face Triple H at Wrestlemania. 

“Fuck!” He kicked out, sending a small decorative piece across the room where it landed with a loud thud. 

He had lost – fair and fucking square, clean as fucking day, and Roman was the one that was going on. Dean had been left, as he'd put it earlier that night, standing on the side of the road watching the tail lights disappear. 

He was glad for Roman. Had been the first to congratulate his brother and his best friend before he had been drug off to do interviews about his big win. Someone had to do it since it seemed like the fans would never get behind him. He could still hear their boos when Roman's hand had been raised as the victor. 

Although he was glad for Roman, he was still pissed. Pissed at the booking cause it was shit. Literally had made him drop his Intercontinental Title for nothing. 

Dean glanced around the room, feeling the anger starting to bubble back up at the thought. He had to leave. Had to get away for a while so he could clear his head, let the anger fade. 

He didn't want to wait for Roman to come back. Even if he wasn't mad at the man, he still didn't want to be around him and see the way his eyes shined with victory. He knew he'd be bitter and that was something they agreed on that wouldn't ever happen. 

So Dean gathers his duffel bag and leaves the room. He drops his bag off in the backseat of Roman's car where he knew it would safely get to Detroit and starts walking.

-

##### February 21, 2016 

**_Post Fastlane – 12:30am_ **

Dean sat in the darkest corner he could find in some dingy little bar that he’d stumbled across while he was walking. He decided that he would dip in for some whiskey and so here he sat – shot glass held in one hand, bottle of Jack Daniels sitting by the other. He rolls the empty glass between his fingers, staring down at the table. Every so often he'd refill it and toss it back. The burn of the whiskey felt good. Helped to ease the loss some. 

Luckily the place wasn’t busy in the slightest and the other patrons hadn’t even batted an eye at Dean when he had walked through the door. No one here recognized him and that was just fine by him. He was in no mood to put up with fans asking for autographs or pictures and he sure wasn't up for talking about what happened tonight. He wanted to left alone, wanted to sulk for just a little while longer before pushing himself up and trudging on. His anger was slowly starting to die down – just smoldering embers now compared to the raging fire it had been. He actually felt a ting of guilt for trashing the locker room and splitting like he had. He hadn't thought about Roman potentially having to clean up the mess when he returned from all his interviews and post congratulation stuff. He also hadn't thought to grab his phone from his duffel before depositing it in Roman's car so if the man tried to call him, he'd get nothing but the voice mail.

It was probably for the best tonight. Dean knew that Roman probably wanted to celebrate, hell who wouldn't after a win that put them on the road to Wrestlemania? Dean also knew that Roman wouldn't have celebrated if he was around because the man didn't want him feeling any worse than he was. Roman's considerate like that. He won't do anything that might intentionally upset Dean. Because he cared, sometimes too much, but he still cared all the same. 

Movement out the corner of his eye distracts Dean momentarily. Someone was coming toward his table. He didn't look up, didn't acknowledge them, sending a silent hope that they would either get the hint that he didn't want to be bothered or were just passing by. That hope was short lived as who ever it was walked right on up and slid into the bench directly across the table from him. Dean didn't spare a glance up before he barked out angrily, 

“Fuck off would you? 'm not in the mood tonight.” 

“Hello Ambrose.” 

His head snapped up at the sound of Brock Lesnar’s voice. Sure enough the man was sitting directly across from him smirking. He was wearing a hoodie, street clothes, and he was surprisingly alone, his advocate was no ever to be seen. 

How the fuck did Lesnar find him? Why the fuck was Lesnar here?

Dean narrowed his eyes. “What the fuck do you want _Lesnar_?” he asked harshly, spitting the last word. He was in no mood to put up with this. None what so ever.

Brock didn’t answer him. Instead he reached over, plucking the shot glass that Dean still held loosely in his hand and grabbing the bottom of Jack. Before Dean could even voice a complaint at the action, the man had filled the shot glass full of the amber liquid and thrown it back. 

“The fuck are you doing?” Dean growled, snatching the shot glass and bottle of Jack back to his side of the table. He glares across the table, “If you wanna drink so bad then go 'n buy your fucking own.” 

He watches as Brock huffs out what sounds like a laugh before sliding out of the bench and walking off. Dean doesn't see where he goes – doesn't care – and just thinks 'good riddance' before he wipes off the rim of his shot glass and fills it again. He's got the shot raised to his lips and is about to down it when Brock returns and slides back opposite of him with a beer in his hand. 

Dean lowers his hand, eyes flicking from the beer to Lesnar's face. He raises an eyebrow in question and watches Lesnar bring his beer to his lips. The fucker actually went a bought his own. They sit in silence. 

Lesnar is looking around the room, eyes scanning the various things hanging from the wall. Dean had noticed them earlier when he'd first walked in but had paid no attention to them. He still didn't pay any attention to them. His focus was on the man sitting opposite of him. The man, who just two hours ago, was beating his and Roman's asses before being power bombed through two tables by Roman and then taken out by a steel chair courtesy of Dean himself. The man that was just sitting across from his casually like it was something that they did. 

“What are you doing?” 

The question brings Lesnar's attention back to him. The man raises his beer, tipping it toward Dean. 

“Having a drink.” he points the top of his beer to the shot glass, “Same as you.” 

“You know what I mean,” Dean growls gesturing almost frantically between the two of them and the table, “Why are you here?” 

“Maybe I wanted to have a drink with you.” Brock answers, laughing quietly when Dean shoots him a look of disbelief. “I was actually just leaving the arena to head for Detroit. Paul's going to meet me there. Saw this place, figured it wouldn't be swarming with fans and decided to stop in for a quick drink.” He shrugs one massive shoulder, “Good way to wash down that bullshit of a loss anyway.” 

At the mention of the Triple Threat Dean feels himself tensing, feels the anger start to flame up again. He quickly lifts his shot and downs it before reaching for the bottle to pour another. Second shot down and Dean is glaring down at the table instead of looking at Lesnar. He didn't want to talk about the match. Not now. Not at all. But he glances up at Lesnar to find the man looking at him calmly and suddenly he's wondering why Brock isn't fucking tearing the place down. 

“How can you say it like that? Shouldn't you be fucking steaming too?” He dares to ask because he just has to know. 

Brock grins, taking a swig of his beer before answering, “Oh believe me I'm absolutely pissed about how that match ended. But I don't let my losses get to me. I don't let them linger long because they'll start eating away at you,” He points a finger to Dean, “Just like it's eating away at you right now,” when Dean opens his mouth to do just that, he adds, “ and don't try to lie Ambrose, I can see it plain as day.” Dean scowls but doesn't try to argue. Silence falls between them again and lingers until Lesnar breaks it with a smirk, “Besides, it's not like there aren't other roads to Wrestlemania.” 

Dean rolls his eyes at that and leans back to cross his arms over his chest and grumble out, “Yeah for you maybe. Some of us don't have an advocate to pull strings and suck dick to get us what we want. Some of us have one shot and if we don't get it then we're out.” 

Brock snorts, “Vince and Stephanie listen to Paul because Paul knows what brings in the ratings. It's hardly pulling strings or sucking dick. It's business. Plain and simple. That being said, since I ran into you, I have a proposition that I want you to consider.” 

“What is it sucking you dick?” Dean questions folding both arms on the table and huddles down, “Because I hate to break it to you but I'm not going to suck your dick.” 

“As tempting as that thought is and as persuasive as I can be, I highly doubt you'd be able to keep up that resolve for long Ambrose but that's not it.” Brock sets his beer on the table and sits up straight. He's all business now. “I assume that you still want to go to Wrestlemania correct?” 

“Fuck yeah I do,” Dean sighs out in frustration, “but wanting to go and actually being booked to go are two different fucking things! And last time I checked I lost, we lost, or did you forget that already?” 

“I haven't but apparently you forgot what I said earlier, there is more than one road to Wrestlemania.” Brock says, gesturing between himself and Dean, “And what's stopping us from stealing the show?” 

“Huh?” Dean blinks in confusion and stares at Brock like he's grown another head before repeating, “Steal the show?” 

Brock nods. “If you're interested, I'll get Paul to arrange something.”

“He can do that?”

“Oh the man has a way with words if you weren't aware.” Brock chuckles, “So you interested?”

“Yeah!,” Dean grins, “Hell yeah!”

“Good,” Brock reaches over to grab the bottle of Jack and pours the shot glass full before nudging it to Dean. When Dean lifts it up, he clinks the top of his beer against it and they both drink. Dean empties the shot and Brock drains the contents of his beer.

“I'll have a word with Paul when I get to the hotel and he'll set it up.” He starts sliding off the bench and stands, reaching a hand out to Dean, “Well Ambrose it was nice talking business.” Dean reaches out to shake it. “See you in Detroit” He turns and starts to leave. 

Dean watches him walking off, chewing on his bottom lip. He hesitates for maybe half a second before he's sliding out of his bench and going after Lesnar, leaving his Jack there. He catches up with the man outside by a black SUV. 

“Hey!” At his call, Brock turns around with keys in hand. He arches an eye brow. Dean shuffles a bit before he asks sheepishly, “Would... uh.. you wouldn't mind giving me a ride to Detroit would ya? I kind of have no way of getting there besides walking.”

Brock smirks. “Sure,” he says unlocked the doors on the SUV, “Get in.” 

The bastard actually waits until Dean has gotten comfortably into the passenger seat and they're headed out of town before he reaches over to start palming Dean through his jeans, adding, “And since I'm giving you a lift I think I deserve to get a little something in return and from our earlier conversation think I want to find out what other things that mouth of yours can do besides run.” 

“You son of a fucking bitch.” It's a strained, breathless growl as Dean's hips buck up against the unrelenting pressure.

**_February 22, 2016 - 1:20 AM_ **


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really hope I did a good job of tying everything together here. 
> 
> This was really long. 
> 
> Will do a proper read over it in the morning sometime and fix any mistakes I find.

**7:30 AM – Detroit, MI**

Dean was stretched out on his stomach on one of the two beds in the room, clicking through the channels on the TV, trying to find something to watch but there was nothing on that caught his particular interests. The shower was running in the background, Roman was in there, taking his turn. Dean had used it earlier that morning. 

Dean huffed out a sigh, dropping the remote before rolling onto his back in the middle of the bed. He stares up at the ceiling, thinking about the events that took place the previous night and into the early morning. 

Brock and his proposition. Steal the show at Wrestlemania by taking a different road to get there. Dean would consider it a back road really, since he's not actually doing anything but sitting back while Paul sweet talks a match for the two of them. But he wasn't about to complain, he would happily take a full ride to Wrestlemania. It hadn't occurred to Dean that Brock pretty much offered to bring him along until later, until Dean had made it to the hotel room and settled down to sleep. He had wondered what the Beast was going to ask for in return, because he doubted that Brock was that generous. Knew for a fact that Brock wasn't that generous and figured that it would be only a matter of time until Brock asked for repayment. 

His mind flashes to the ride Brock had given him to Detroit from Cleveland and the blow job that he'd given as payment for it. He wiggles slightly and licks his lips. He could still feel those hands on his head, threading in his hair, holding him tight and he can still taste the salty release as it had spilled into his mouth. He'd swallowed it down, not that Brock had given him much choice as the asshole hadn't allowed him to pull off and kept him firmly in place as he'd came. Afterwards those same hands had pushed him back into the passenger seat and undid his jeans. Dean had to admit, Brock knew how to give a good damn hand job. The steady strokes and firm squeezes coupled with the occasional twist of a wrist and swipe of a thumb over the head of his dick had Dean spilling his own release with a loud moan as his fingers dug into the leather of the seat. 

He'd been dropped off a couple blocks from the hotel by request. He knew Roman would already be there and he didn't want to run the risk of his best friend seeing him with Brock Lesnar. Roman would fly off the handle, Dean knew he would. 

“We'll be in touch Ambrose,” Brock had told him as he shut the passenger door and watched the black SUV pull away. 

Roman had been both relieved to see him and absolutely furious that he'd just taken off when he arrived at the hotel and knocked on the door.

_“Did you know how worried I was Dean?!” the Samoan man exclaimed once he'd opened the door to find Dean standing on the other side with a grin. He had ushered Dean in and closed the door before continuing the lecture, “I called you so many times before I found your bag and phone in my car! I don't know how many times I have to tell you to take your damn phone with you!”_

_“Sorry mom,” Dean had replied with a sheepish grin dodging the lighthearted punch that Roman had thrown at him with a laugh before straightening and apologizing for real, “'M sorry Ro, I just had to clear my head. Get away and cool off from.... ya know” Admitting to the loss still left a bitter taste in his mouth and it was a taste he didn't want to have then so he avoided saying it but Roman understood._

_“You could have at least left me a note,” Roman had crossed his arms over his chest, fixing a stern look at Dean, “And maybe not have left the locker room looking like a natural disaster had hit it.”_

_“Ah... oops,” Was the only thing Dean could say to that._

_Roman huffed out a laugh, shaking his head. He moved over and sat on one of the two beds in the room. Dean followed, mirroring the action on the other. He noticed that his bag was sitting beside Roman's on the floor beside the bed._

_“So Fastlane,” Roman said, and Dean's eyes snapped back to him. His expression had changed, taken on a solemn expression. Dean had tensed, knowing what Roman's next words were going to be before the man had spoken them. “Do you want to talk about it?”_

_No. Dean most definitely didn't._

_“'S nothing to talk about,” he had murmured, dropping his gaze to the floor, “I lost. Cleanly and by the fucking books. Not really much to talk about.”_

_Roman's hand had settled on his forearm, causing him to look up. He was met with a worried expression._

_“You know what I mean Dean. Are we good?”_

_“We'll always be good Ro,” It wasn't a lie. Never would be one. “I was just pissed at the fact that I lost. Not you.”_

-  
Dean is snapped from his thoughts when the door to the bathroom opens and Roman comes back into the room. He's wearing baggy shorts but nothing else. His hair is still dripping from his shower. 

“Morning,” Dean grunts, sitting up. 

“You're up this early?” Roman asks playfully, surprise in his voice. He glances at the small digital clock on the night stand between their beds. It read 7:59am. “I'm surprised! You're more of a 'shit I'm about to be late' sleeper.” 

“Fuck off,” Dean grins, “Could sleep with you stomping around in the bathroom in there.” 

“Oh really?” an eyebrows is raised at him. 

“Yeah you're so loud -” what Dean was about to say was lost when Dean's phone dings from it's place on the night stand, indicating that he'd gotten a text message. 

Dean's attention shifts to the phones, brows furrowing in confusion as he reaches for the device. Normally only Roman would be the one that text him and Roman was here in the room with him, his own phone still lying on his side of the night stand. He opened the messages, eyes widening when he sees; 

_Mr. Ambrose. Good morning. Meet me outside your hotel @ 8:15 am. Look for the dark blue SUV. Don't be late. - P.H. Advocate of The Beast._

“The fuck?” How the hell did Paul Heyman get his number? He'd only ever gave it to three people; Seth, who wouldn't dare call him now, WWE, because it had been mandatory in case he needed to be updated on the schedule, and of course Roman. He hadn't realized he'd spoken out loud until Roman was asking.

“Something wrong?” 

“Huh?” Dean blinks, looks up. He mentally kicks himself. “Uh.... oh yeah! Just got a text from one of the crew members. Gotta go in fifteen for some kind of last minute interview or something.” He hated lying to Roman but he didn't think telling his best friend that he'd made a deal with Brock Lesnar was a good idea. 

“That's weird,” Roman says with a frown, “Since when did the crew members get your number anyway?” 

“Beats the fuck outta me,” Dean shrugs, glancing at the clock, 8:10. He needed to get going. “Well I better get going. Would hate to keep them waiting. Maybe find out how the crew members got my number.” Dean starts heading for the door, “See you tonight yeah?”

“Yeah bro,” Roman reaches a fist out and Dean bumps his own fist against it on the way by. “Later!” 

Dean walks out onto the side of the street, spots the dark SUV sitting across from the hotel. The windows are tinted, dark enough that Dean couldn't tell who was in the vehicle. He looks around before he starts to make his way over. He gets across the street before his phone sounds again, indicating another text. 

_Back passenger side._

Dean opens the back passenger door and is greeted by the sight of Paul Heyman, seated on the back drivers side with a laptop in his lap. When he doesn't immediately get in, Paul looks up, says impatiently, “Well don't just stand there, get in Mr. Ambrose. I don't have all day to wait on you.” 

“Why?” 

Paul sighs, closing the lid of his laptop to glare at Dean. “So we may go to met Brock at his hotel and I can brief the two of you on what I was able to get for you. That way I won't have to repeat myself twice now if you will, please get in the damn vehicle.” 

Dean smirks at the annoyance in Paul's voice but he moves while he does so, hoisting himself up and into the back passenger seat, shutting the door behind himself. 

The ride across the city was silent for the most part. The only noise in the vehicle came from the occasional tapping of Paul's fingers on the keyboard of his laptop, he'd resumed his work once the vehicle had pulled off the curb. Even the driver was silent, focused on his task. The music that played wasn't anything that Dean was familiar with, it was mostly instrumental with no words or lyrics to even begin to sing along to. So Dean busied himself with staring out the tinted windows, watching as the surrounding neighborhood started to change from moderate to more high class. Extravagant, unreasonably expensive stores took the place of the reasonably, cheap ones. The fast food joints were replaced by fancy, suite and tie only restaurants. Even the hotels were so noticeably different and Dean could help but mutter a bewildered “Holy shit” when they rode past one of the fanciest hotels that Dean had ever seen in his life and slowed to turn into the parking garage that set next to it. 

“Impressive isn't it?” Paul had closed his laptop and put everything in his carry bag as they had drawn nearer. Now he was regarding Dean with a sneer on his face as they pulled into the parking garage and parked on the ground floor by a very nice looking Mercedes. “See what being successful can do for you?” He pops open his door and slips out. 

Dean ignores the obvious dig and huffs out a “Fuck off” before mirroring the action and getting out the vehicle. He waits as Paul pays the driver and speaks to him briefly before following Brock's advocate into the elevator that would take them to the hotel. 

The walk from the elevator up to the room consisted of Dean staring at everything in amazement, from the large fountain in the center of the lobby to the array of bright gold and blue colors that decorated everything. There was a large amount of people, all of them with the air of importance and errogance that only high class people had. He never felt so out of place among all the people in business attire. All these stuck up rich fucks who treated anyone without money or success like dirt, looked down upon them like dirt. Dean didn't like these kinds of people, hated them in fact. Luckily for him, these people were too high up in their own asses to pay any attention to him as he shuffled along behind Paul. The very few who did, had done so with their noses wrinkled in disgust and were promptly met with a glare from him. 

Dean let out a slight sigh of relief as they stepped into the empty elevator. He was more than thankful that it was just him and Paul in the elevator. He didn't think he could handle any more rich fucks. He watched as Paul hit the button for the 5th floor and the elevator moved. 

Paul said nothing to him, not that he expected the man to, and looked as though he'd set about ignore him all together, which again was just fine by Dean. When the elevator doors opened on their floor, Paul lead the way out. The hall was just a elegant and fancy looking as the whole hotel had been so far. Paul pulled out a key card before stopping at a large door at the end of the hall. He swiped the card, opening the door before stepping aside and motioning for Dean to go through first. 

Dean does, walking into a rather large room. One wall was nothing but windows, overlooking the city below. There were two rooms, one looked to be something sort of a living room that had a very large dark blue couch, a coffee table, and an arm chair that matched the couch. Hanging on the wall in front of the furniture was a very large flat screen TV. The second room was probably the bedroom, Dean deduced and it was confirmed when Brock appeared through it. 

The man wore nothing with sweat pants and had a towel hanging around his neck like he just hadn't been long out the shower. 

Despite himself, Dean's throat goes dry at the sight and before he can even think twice about it, his eyes are wondering that exposed skin. He'd seen Brock shirtless many times and had thought nothing of it but somehow this was different. Of course, back then, the man hadn't fucked him either. Whatever the reason for Dean's sudden interest, his dick appreciated it. He fells it twitch in his pants. 

Brock noticed Dean's wondering eyes and quickly darkening gaze and couldn't help but smirk. He flexes teasingly, his muscles bulging, enjoying the way those blue eyes grew darker and that pink tongues darted out from that hot mouth to lick at those kissable lips. 

The sound of a throat being cleared breaks the scene. Paul was regarding the two of them impatiently. The noise snaps Dean out of it as he looks away to glare at the adjacent wall, cheeks becoming flushed with embarrassment and perhaps anger at letting himself get caught up in looking at Brock's body. Brock just merely looks at Paul, smiling unashamed. He moves to sit on one end of the large couch. Paul takes a seat in the arm chair, turning his attention to Dean, who still was trying to glare a hole in the wall. 

“Mr. Ambrose,” Dean turns his head to look at Paul and Paul gestures to the unoccupied end of the couch, “If you could will.” 

For a split moment Dean wants to argue against the gesture and flat out refuse to sit but he doesn't, instead he walks over and sits down stiffly, not letting his guard down. His leg starts bouncing of his own accord, signaling his unease. 

“Gentlemen as you know I've talked with Mr. McMahon about the proposed idea of you two having a match at Wrestlemania,” Paul began, folding his hands together, “I've just heard back from him and I am pleased to announce that he thought it was a marvelous idea. He has given his okay and has already informed Stephanie and Hunter of the arrangement. So I am happy to inform you that we have the slot for the match and all we have to do is come up with a stipulation and Mr. McMahon has given us the liberty to make it whatever we choose.” 

“Wonderful,” Brock nods in satisfaction and leans back against the back of the couch. 

“Well damn,” Dean grins excitedly. 

“Yes,” Paul is nodding as he reaches down to pull up a small case from it's spot on the floor, “and since this is a spectacular event I took the liberty of getting the finest champagne for us to seal it with.” He pops open the case and pulls out a bright light tanned colored bottle of champagne that Dean had no knowledge of other that it was champagne. The bottle was sat on the coffee table long enough for Paul to produce three glasses from the same case and set them onto the table. The cork to the champagne was removed and all three glasses were filled with the light colored liquid. “Mr. Ambrose I do hope that you drink champagne,” Paul says after he's handed a glass off to Brock and mirrors to do the same for Dean. 

Dean takes the glass, says, “Ain't what I'm used to but alcohol is alcohol.” 

They clink glasses and Dean takes a sip, nose wrinkling at the taste of it. It wasn't too bad, tasted weird, vanilla-ish. He was more used to a pure alcohol taste accompanied by a burning throat. He watched as both Brock and Paul both sipped theirs, unaffected by the taste, probably even enjoyed it. 

“Since we have the hard part of this deal out of the way now. Do either of you have any ideas on the match?” Paul asks. And that was the million dollar question. Dean pulled the glass between his too hands as he brows furrowed in thought. He'd never actually had to come up with a match that wasn't originally brought up to him beforehand. This was new and with it, his mind drew blanks. Luckily it didn't seem that Brock's had.  
Brock hummed as he set his half empty glass back down on the coffee table. “I've got something in mind that I think will work.” He says, leaning back against the back of the couch again. 

Dean looks at him expectantly, waiting for him to elaborate on that. He doesn't say anymore and Dean is prompted to ask, “Well are you going to share or am I being expected to guess?”

“Neither,” Brock answered with a nod to Paul, “Only thing you need to worry about is getting to the arena tonight. Paul is going to arrange that. Have someone pick you up and bring you. You'll have to wait until you get there to see what I have have planned for tonight.” 

“Great. Fucking fantastic. I love surprises,” Dean is suddenly livid and he can't stand to sit there any longer. He slams the glass onto the table and get up, begins to pace from his end of the couch to the arm chair and back. His eyes don't stray from Brock, the other man's still calm and neutral posture pissing him off all the more. He spits out, “Why the fuck am I even here?” He glares at Paul and Brock, the question aimed at both of them. He doesn't allow them to answer, though Paul had his mouth open ready to, before he's speaking again, “I mean really? You” he points at Paul,” could've just called or text and said that the match was a go and since knucklehead,” he throws a thumb in Brock's direction,” over there has every-fucking-thing figured out already then why the fuck am I here?” 

Paul looks absolutely appalled at the fact that Dean just referred to Brock as a knucklehead while he was in the same room. He starts with rebuke, “Mr. Ambrose-”

“Paul.” Paul closes his mouth when Brock cuts him off and he watches as Brock rises to his feel, faces Dean. To Dean, Brock says, “Calm down.” adding when Dean bares his teeth in a snarl and opens his mouth to undoubtedly start cursing at him, “you didn't let me finish.” At that Dean does stop pacing. The dirty blond faces Brock then, eyes narrowing, waiting. Brock fights the urge to smile though his lips quirk, “We'll have the set up ready and get everything set for the match but the type of match we have at Wrestlemania is up to you to decided. Any stipulation you wish.” 

Dean blinks, his anger gone. Well that was certainly a rather pleasant surprise that he had not expected. “I get to pick our match? Anything I want?” He repeats, having to make sure he hadn't somehow misheard things. 

“Yes,” Brock nods, “be thinking about it. Don't make decision though until after you see what I have planned.” 

“Fair enough,” Dean nods and just then his stomach growls, loudly. He'd nearly forgotten that he hadn't had anything to eat since before Fastlane. “So we done here?” he asks, looking from Brock to Paul, “cuz I'm seriously hungry. Paul could I get a ride to get something to eat?” 

Paul scoffs at Dean, “I'm not a taxi cab Mr. Ambrose as I'm not getting paid to ferry you around town for your convenience.” he informs, “I will take you straight back you your hotel.” 

“Oh come on!” Dean whines, grinning when it sees that it gets on Paul's nerves and then does it again just to be a fuck, “We can't stop at some greasy fast food joint on the way back? I knew there are like ten we could stop at.” 

“You're not eating in my car!” Paul argued, his face already turning red with anger, “I just had my car detailed and I have seen first hand what a messy eater you are Mr. Ambrose. I will drop you off at a fast food place if you so much desire but you will be walking to your hotel from there because you will not be bringing food into my car.” 

Dean crosses his arms over his chest, holding Paul's heated stare and grumbles under his breath. 

“How about this,” Brock, who had seen watching the exchange with amusement, speaks up, drawing both men's attention, “Ambrose would you like to eat here?” the question throws everyone off. Dean is looking at Brock like he'd lost his ever loving mind while Paul looked shocked that Brock would even ask. 

“The food here is very delicious, five star, and catering is free to whomever has a room rented.” Brock offers as an explanation with a shrug of his shoulder, “This could be counted as a celebration to the fact that we're going to steal the show at Wrestlemania.” 

That reason was questionable but Dean wasn't about to say no to food he didn't have to pay for. So he finds himself nodding, “Yeah sure. Sounds good.” 

“Paul, if you would, go order three large breakfast platters.” Paul nods at the request and gets up, heading over to where the hotel room phone was sitting on a very large desk. His intentions were to call down the order but Brock seemed to have other ideas as he stops Paul by saying, “Paul go down and order it. Make sure they do it right. Come back up with it once it's done.” 

Dean watches as they share a look, Paul looking ready to rebel at that idea but Brock cocks an eyebrow at him as if daring him to say something. Paul lets out a sigh, seeming to understand what Brock was wanting. 

“Very well,” it resigned, unhappy as Paul grabs his phone and leaves the room, door shutting behind him. 

Leaving Dean and Brock alone together. Dean is suddenly aware of that fact and he's suddenly super aware. He watches, unmoving, as Brock pushes himself to his feet. There's a hint of a smile on the man's face as he closes the distance between them. When he gets closer enough, he reaches out and hauls Dean forward, pressing their bodies together and capturing Dean's mouth in a kiss. 

Dean hesitates briefly before he's return it eagerly. His body reacts immediately to the contact and he gets so caught up in the tangle of tongues and clash of teeth that he doesn't notice that Brock was backing them up until his back made contact with the wall, drawing a grunt from him that was lost between their mouths. A knee was slipped between his legs and Dean couldn't stop himself from grinding against it. His desperation and eagerness was disgusting but he just didn't care, not when his body was starting to burn with need. 

Brock broke the kiss, chuckling when Dean growled at him. He leans down and in, angling his head where he could drag his tongue and teeth along the column of Dean's neck, the action drawing a moan from the dirty blond. The man was damn near furiously grinding against his knee now and Brock couldn't help but smile in the column of Dean's neck. His hands slipped down Dean's body, coming to a rest on those narrow hips and stops the movement. 

Dean's whine of protest filled the room as his movements were stilled. He reaches up, digging the blunt nails of one hand into Brock's shoulder while the other hand digs into the muscles of Brock's left arm. Letting him know just how much Dean's appreciated that. He gets a hard bite in the junction of his neck and shoulder in return that has him groaning out before Brock's shifting and grinding his own hips forward. 

The sweet friction of their clothes dicks rubbing together causes both men to groan. 

“Come on,” Brock's voice is gruff, low. He pulls away long enough to wrap a hand around Dean's wrist and starts walking toward the bedroom, pulling Dean along. 

They end up in the bathroom. Brock's leaning against the counter with Dean's back pressed firmly against his chest. Dean's pants and underwear are pooled around his ankles. Brock's got an arm around Dean's mid-section, keeping the dirty blond pinned to his chest. The hand of his other arm is wrapped firmly around Dean's dick, stroking the hard flesh in earnest. 

“Shit fuck!” Dean grits out, thrusting his hips up into Brock's hand. His head lulls back against a bare shoulder. 

“Like that huh?” Brock's mouth is right in the shell of Dean's ear. He twists his hand on a stroke upwards, sending a spark of pleasure up Dean's spine that causes him to moan out. “Yeah you like that.” Brock grins, teeth grazing Dean's ear. 

The pleasure was slowly building, inching Dean closer and closer to the edge of release. His hips hitched forward more frantically into that devilish hand. “Ah!.... fuck!.... Lesnar.... just a bit...”

The strokes sped up and with another sweet twist of the wrist and a few swipes of a thumb over the head of his dick he was right on the edge. A sharp bite to his ear pushes him over the edge and Dean is coming with a choked off cry, covering Brock's hand with his release. Brock continues to stroke him until he's sagging back against the large frame, letting the man support his weight with ease. 

Brock lets him take a couple of deep breaths to steady himself before pushing him away so he could turn to the sink and wash his hand. When he turns back around, he's momentarily surprised to find Dean facing him, close. A hand is placed on his chest as a signal for him to stay put before it slips down his body to join the other to grip the sides of his sweat pants and pulled then down far enough for his cock to spring free. He's not wearing any underwear, which never does when he's aiming to relax, but Dean doesn't know that fact and decides to comment on the lack of undergarments as he sinks to his knees on the carpeted rug. 

“Fucking looks like you were expecting to get some. Must consider yourself a real lucky bastard huh?” 

Brock almost tells Dean the real reason but decides last minute to play along. “I like to be prepared just in case the situation calls for it.” he says instead, “Knew Paul would probably want us together to tell us the news since he hates repeating himself more than once and I figured there was a slight possibly that this would happen if me and you got in the same room together so I decided to be ready for it if the situation arose.” He slips a hand down into those dirty blond curls while his other braces him back against the counter. 

Dean chuckles at his words, eyes focused in on Brock's dick as he takes it in his hand. He gives the hard length a few teasing strokes before licking his lips and flicking his gaze up to Brock's face. Their eyes meet and Dean smiles so sweetly, dimples on display, before he says in a voice that was equally as sweet that just grates on Brock's nerves and has him itching to just shove the other man's head down on his dick to stop whatever smart ass thing is about to come out of his, he doesn't though, “Well since you've been just oh so fucking generous with ordering me breakfast and all, why don't I show a little generosity myself and give you a little something hmm?” 

Brock doesn't even get the time to form a reply before that hot, smart, trash talking mouth is closing around the head of his dick, sucking it down noisily. A laugh escapes his lips, it's strained but still reverberates around the bathroom. The hand curled in those curls tightens slightly but Brock doesn't move to control Dean's movements like he'd done that morning in his SUV. This times he lets Dean's head bob freely, enjoying the sensations as Dean sucking him off almost furiously. Sloppy slurping sounds are coming from the man on his knees and it's doing nothing but flaming Brock's fire, causes him to hitch his hips forward and causes his dick to throb. 

Dean digs his fingers into the massive muscle on Brock's thighs, quickening his movements. The low groans and gasps from above him doing nothing to spurring him on. He sucks harder on the way down, swallowing as much of the thick dick as he can while his hand glides up and down the rest. Swipes his tongue across the head and over the slit every times he pulls up for breath. It's not long before he feels Brock swelling in his mouth, knows he's got the Beast right on the edge. The groans from above become for breathless, urgent, and Brock's hitch forward almost frantically. Dean would smirk smugly if he could instead, he settles for pulling back, letting his teeth graze the hard flesh before diving back down, humming as he does so. That's enough to push Brock over and he feels the hand twist damn near painfully in his hair, holding him down and still, as the dick pulsates and shoots it's release down his throat. 

He swallows it down, the urge to breath rising. He taps urgently on the arm of the hand that's tangled in his hair and pulls back and off the softening dick when he feels it loosen. He gasps, resting his forehead against Brock's thigh. They're both breathing hard, Brock's sagged against the counter. 

“Damn,” Brock breaths and Dean can only nod in response. 

They're dressed and back lounging on the couch watching a MLB documentary on the Cincinnati Reds when the breakfast arrived. The delicious smell of bacon, eggs, toast, and other assortments of food drifts into the room, making Dean's mouth water and his stomach howl. They dig in. Dean and Brock both ignoring the look Paul gives them. 

**9:00 am.**

–

**5:30 PM**

The ride that Paul had arranged had arrive the exact he had said it would. They went over exactly when and where Dean would been picked up and dropped off when Paul had taken him back to his hotel after they'd finished breakfast. Dark gray Toyota. Parked across the street from his hotel. 5:25 PM. 

The ride to the arena itself was quiet, the drivers didn't talk at all – to which Dean was grateful for. He hated hitching rides with people who talked all the time even though nine times out of ten he was that person on car rides. The driver didn't say a word though and he seemed focused on his task, knew exactly where he was taking Dean. They pulled up in the parking garage of the arena and Dean shoots him a quick thanks before getting out to an eruption of cheers that were been directed his way by fans who had arrived and gathered to watch the wrestlers arrive. 

And on his way in, is when the attack happened. In absolutely no way had Dean expected Brock to attack him while he was arriving at the arena. It was just something he never thought Brock Lesnar would do. A sneak attack. That's why he's caught completely off guard, unable to react, when the Beast comes barreling into him, sending him back against the Toyota he'd just arrive in. The following kicks to his mid section connected just hard enough to drive all the air from his lungs, making so he's too busy trying to draw a breath to fight back. His back landing against the hood of the parked limo did nothing to help him in regaining his breath. His world spun and pain exploded along his back as Brock had then effortlessly picked him up and slammed him against the windshield of the limo. He heard the glass crack upon impact. Heard the fans as well as the agents screaming at Brock. 

Dean could do nothing for a few minutes but lay there, stunned. He gasped for breath. He doesn't know how long it was but he heard the agents checking on him, heard the fans still yelling, and from the distance, growing closer, he heard the wail of the siren. Moments later an ambulance was pulling into the parking garage and voice of the medics as they attend to him. 

When he finally recovers enough to be coherent, he finds himself on a stretchers with a neck brace around his neck. He's being loaded into the back of the ambulance. 

“Relax Dean, you have to go to the hospital for precautionary reasons,” is being said to him as the medic climbs in the back with him and the doors are shut. 

Luckily Paul seemed to have all the bases covered. By the time Dean had arrived at the hospital, the whole staff knew that this was a staged attack. Still he had to do a routine x-ray just because of his landing on the windshield. It all came back good. Doctors told him that he would probably be sore for a day or two and had informed Stephanie and Hunter that he might need at least Smackdown off, which Dean was sure that was just mostly to play up the storyline even more. 

It seemed that Paul had even arranged a way for him to get back to the arena for his confrontation with Brock. He was briefed after he was cleared and handed the keys to the ambulance along with a small note from one of the staff that had been given to them by Paul. Curiously Dean unfolded the paper and read what was written on the paper: 

I heard you loved hospitals so I took the liberty of getting you sent to one. Enjoy. -Lesnar

Dean could help the laughter that bubbled from him as he balled the piece of paper up and threw it in the trash. It was no secret and everyone in the WWE knew that Dean absolutely hated hospitals, would never go to one if he could fight his way out of it. Brock knew it too, was no way that he didn't. The note was just a tease, another intentional prod. He's show him. 

–

It comes time for Brock and Paul to head to the ring for their segment. There still hadn't been any sign of Dean yet but Brock wasn't concerned. He didn't know the whole details of what all Paul had set up with the hospital, he simply hadn't asked, but he knew that Paul had a timed schedule and had no doubt that Dean would eventually show up. So they head to the ring and Paul gets a mic in his hand. 

Paul makes the attack on Dean seem like it was some sort of revenge for Dean costing Brock the match  
by hitting him with that steel chair and knocking him out of the ring. That Dean had it coming. Brock had to force himself to keep up his game face. He fought down the fond smile, kept his face frozen. Paul Heyman had a way with words. Had a way to tie everything up perfectly together. Finishes up by saying that Dean was out of the picture and that Brock would need someone new to face at Wrestlemania. 

The sound of a horn and sirens fill the arena but they come as no surprise to Brock or Paul even thought he plays as if they were. The tron flashed on, the doors opening, the ambulance forcing its way into the building. Brock fought hard to force the smile that was threatening to appear on his face away and keep up his expression. Dean sat behind the wheel of the ambulance, still wearing the neck brace that had been put on his neck from earlier. Brock waited, the ball was in Dean's court now, it was just a matter if what he was going to do with it. And Brock looked forward to finding out. 

The siren grew louder before the ambulance itself appeared in the arena, pulling right up by the stage. Brock and Paul watched as Dean got out and literally dragged himself down the ring, feigning the beating that he allegedly took at the hands of Brock earlier that day, when all three of them knew that Dean would only feel slight discomfort from being slammed into the limo's windshield. The crowd was loving it though. Cheers of Dean's name filled the arena. 

Brock let Dean get nearly to the ring before he moved, climbing through the ropes with Paul following to stand over Dean who had made it to the bottom of the ramp. He had to make this a show and so he had planted his foot on Dean's face, a move he knew would more than most likely anger the other man further, and walked over him heading back up the ramp. Paul dropped his mic next the Dean before following. Brock waited, the whole way up the ramp, waited for Dean to make his move. 

"BROCK!" Dean's voice shouted over the speakers. Brock allowed a small smile to play on his lips before he steeled himself and turned back around, staring down at the man still laid out at the bottom of the ramp. “Kiss my ass, I told you I'm indestructible” he pushes himself up to a sitting position, “And you're gonna find that out the hard way.” Dean shifted as if uncomfortable, “I want-ow” another shift, “I want Brock Lesnar at Wrestlemania!" he said, eyes locking with Brock's. His next words had Brock smiling, "No Holds Barred Street Fight!" 

The crowd erupted. Their deal finalized with those eleven words. Brock shares a glance at Paul, who looks for than surprised at Dean's words. Brock figured it would be something like this and he loves it. He steels himself again and starts walking back down the ramp. Since it was finalized, he might as well put his seal of approval on it. An F-5 later to Dean later and he was walking back up the ramp. When he got to the top he glanced back once more to find Dean watching him, smiling at him. 

The deal was done. 

– 

**11:30 PM**

Dean's exiting the hospital and head for his cab. Raw's been over for around twenty minutes. After the F-5 from Brock, Dean had been taken back to the hospital to keep up the storyline. He's just been released. The staff there had been nice enough to call him a cab and after a few autographs and pictures Dean is saying his goodbyes and crawling into the cab. The driver asks where he wants to go and he pauses to think. He should go back to his and Roman's hotel room, well his now since he'd gotten a text from Roman saying that he had to leave early in order to make it to another hospital to have surgery on his nose. Nothing major, something that's been scheduled for a while now. He could return to the hotel room, get a hot shower and sink into the covers and relax. He'd been, as the doctor has instructed, given that Smackdown off in order to further play the storyline that Brock had beaten him bad. He should just go back to the hotel but the more he thinks about it, the less appealing it become and he finds himself rattling off the name of the hotel that Brock was staying at. 

The driver nods and they head off. 

When they get to the large hotel, Dean is once again awed all over again by it's elegance. He hands the driver a wad of cash, telling the man to keep the change as he pops the door open and climbs out. The cab pulls off as he walks up the steps and into the building. 

The guy at the front desk give him a particularly disgusted look when Dean walks up. His well worn hoodie, jeans, boots, and messy hair stick out like a sore thumb here. 

“Can I help you sir?” the receptionist asks in a polite voice that sounds about as forced as the welcoming look on his face. 

“Yeah,” Dean props up on the marble counter, lick quirking up at the annoyed look that flashes across the receptionist's face, “I'm here to see Brock Lesnar.” 

“What is the nature of you visit?” 

“Business” Dean says simply, not adding anything more, “Just tell him that it's Ambrose.” 

“One moment,” the receptionist steps away and over to a phone. Dean watches as he picks it up and dials a number. He holds the phone to his ear, letting it stay for what would amount to a couple rings before apparently not getting an answer and hanging up.” He comes back over, “I'm sorry sir it does not appear that Mr. Lesnar is in.”

“I can't just go up, wait by his room until he comes back?” Dean asks. 

“I'm afraid not sir,” the receptionist looks horrified at even the thought of that, “without Mr. Lesnar's permission I cannot allow you to go up to his room. And our lobby has a strict no loitering policy so I'm afraid you cannot wait here either.” 

“You're kidding me?”

“Once again I'm afraid not sir,” He receptionist looks over Dean's shoulder as he says it and nods. In seconds two other men are there, they're in suites but it's obvious they're security. The receptionist confirms it when he addresses them, “Gentlemen if you would please escort this man out.” 

Dean glares at the receptionist but doesn't put up the fight he wants to when he'd lead out. The doors are practically shut in his face once he's on the outside mat. Well that was just plain fucking rude. 

He stomps down the stair, pulling out his phone as he goes. He finds Heyman's number and calls it. It's answered on the third ring by a very sleep filled voice.

“Hello?” 

“Hey Heyman, it's me” 

“Mr. Ambrose?” by the surprise in his voice, it's evident that Paul hadn't looked at the phone before answering. His tone becomes irritated as he demands, “What do you want?” 

“Where's Lesnar at?” Dean paces back and forth.

“How am I supposed to know this Mr. Ambrose?” 

“Because you know everything there is to know about Brock Lesnar,” Dean does his best to imitate the way Paul says the name, “hell you probably even know every time he fucking sneezes.” 

A sigh comes through the phone, an indication to Paul's mounting irritation at the call. “If you really want to know, Brock had a meeting with someone tonight, someone important, that he went to right after out segment on Raw. He gave me the rest of the night and tomorrow off and I was trying to get some rest before you rudely interrupted it,” though Paul couldn't see Dean grinned at that, “and while I have you one the phone Mr. Ambrose allow me to give you a piece of advice. If I were you, I wouldn't be reading too much into the situation that's been going on the past couple of weeks. Believe me when I say that Brock's actions have been all business. I'm not stupid, I know what the two of you have been doing and I hate to burst your bubble but whatever you think might be happening, isn't. Brock never does anything unless he's had a motive to do it. These little sexual romps were nothing more than a play to get him what he wanted and he's got it. A match with you means more screen time for him which means more money. It's business Mr. Ambrose, not that you would know anything about that or perhaps you might since it's the exact same thing that Mr. Rollins did, not that Brock is as low as that weasel. The best thing you should do is get whatever thought out of your head that Brock wants to see your face now that he's gotten his match and get yourself back to your hotel room and rest while you can. Then start to prepare yourself for the beating your going to take at Wrestlemania.” 

“Real fucking sure of yourself aren't you Paul,” Dean growls into the phone. He's fucking livid. So livid that he's pacing, teeth grinding, fist clenched, eyes glaring at nothing in front of him. People were staring at him but he ignores them, focuses only on the voice coming through the speaker. 

“Of course I am,” it's smug, “I've known Brock for years. I built him. I know how he operates. Know him a lot better than you apparently think you do. Now if you would so kindly stop wasting my time Mr. Ambrose, I've got sleep to catch up on. Do not bother me again.” 

The line goes dead and Dean plops down, right on the side of a stone wall that surrounded one of the small flower beds in front of the hotel. He slowly lowers the phone from his ear, hangs it up. He has the strongest urge to fling the device into the traffic that riding by but he resists, instead he just slips the phone back into his pocket and sits there, head down. 

Paul's words ring through his head again and he thinks of how stupid he was. What was he expecting in coming here? Did the expect Brock to be here waiting for him? What the fuck was he even thinking? He wasn't. That's what he comes up with. He wasn't thinking, neither time he and Brock had done things. He'd just gone with the flow and let it happen. Hell he had even come to look forward to Brock showing up though he'd never admitted it. But Paul's words did have some truth to them. Brock was probably just using him to get what he wanted and Dean had just let it happen blindly. He balled his his hands into fists, glaring at the ground. 

Dean isn't sure how long he'd been sitting there, glaring at the ground like it had personally offended him. He'd lost all track of time, caught up in his own head and thinking about Paul's words and the past couple of weeks. 

A shadow casts itself over him suddenly, indicating that he was no longer alone. He doesn't move at first to acknowledge whoever it was, silently hoping the person would get the hint and go the fuck away. The shadow doesn't move though and Dean sighs out before raising his head, angry words leaving his lips, “Look here fuck face I don't know what the fuck you want but could you kindly fuc-” 

He stops, mouth hanging open. Towering over him, one brow raised was Brock Lesnar. 

“The fuck you want?” He asks instead, looking away. 

“I believe I should be the one asking you that Dean,” There is a hint of amusement in Brock's voice as he speaks and Dean bites his lips to keep from snapping, “considering you're sitting outside my hotel room this late at night sulking.” 

“'M not sulking,” Dean mumbles, not looking at Brock. 

“You're not?” Dean doesn't see the disbelieving look that crosses Brock's face as he asks. 

Dean shakes his head, a no. 

“Then what are you doing out this late at night, seated in front of my hotel then?” 

All Dean could do is shrug at that. Really he just didn't know anymore. His shoulders and back were starting to throb in pain from the limo and him having them tenses while he sat there. He was exhausted. The cool night air was starting to makes its way through his jacket, making him cold. Regret was swirling in his stomach. He should have just gone back to his hotel. Why didn't he just go back to his hotel? 

“Those fuckers in there,” Dean didn't realize he'd started talking until he heard the words tumble from his mouth. He jerks his head back toward the hotel, “told me I couldn't wait for you to get back because of some no loitering policy and the fucking receptionist had me thrown out.”

“They did did they?” There was something, a hard edge, to Brock's voice as he spoke. Dean looked up, the man was looking at the door, eyes narrowed. When Brock looked back, there was a devilish glint in his eye and a matching smirk on his face. “Well we can't have that now can we?” He stands, tilting his head toward the door, “Come on.” 

Dean grinned as he got up and followed Brock back inside, not even trying to hide the smug look on his face as he shot the stunned receptionist a less that appropriate bird all while Brock watched with a slight smile and a daring look for someone to try and say anything. The two went up to Brock's room and it was the next morning before Dean was leaving and heading back to his hotel to gather his things for his flight to Nevada.


End file.
